After seven days in the sun

Nathalie, riding, found the boy, dead; She had not known he was missing. The coyote she startled ran on ahead Letting the smell steer his tread. She'd circled around to look for the thing-- When Nathalie, riding, found the boy, dead, Face down in the sand. A feeling of dread at seeing his corpse there, bloating, A coyote, startled, but waiting, ahead-- A rare feast before it was spread. It circled around, a coward, a king When Nathalie, riding, found the boy, dead. He'd used a rope; he'd severed the thread Of breath in his self-made swing. The coyote, startled, had run on ahead. The black rope was tight, and had stopped his breath As he swung from that fatal string. And Nathalie, riding, found the boy, dead; The coyote she startled ran on ahead.